Dyb dyb dybby Angus Shoor Caan

Genre:MemoirSwearwords: None.Description:A memorable evening in 1963.

​​I was a boy scout once. It was fifty four years ago now but I remember it vividly for three reasons.

I was in my first year of secondary school, St. Michael's in Irvine, the year before it moved to a new facility in Kilwinning. I don't know to this day why I was approached to join the movement, but the older pupil who invited me to attend a meeting lived near us and I often had to retrieve our football from his back garden. He was some sort of team leader at the time. I possibly felt flattered, truth be told, and turned up to the scout hut, situated on the same street as my old primary school, and was talked through what to expect from that particular evening. There was no initiation ceremony that I can recall, and straight down to dishing out badges earned by some of those in the full scout uniform.

I had never played British Bulldog in my life but I watched the first run from the sidelines, admiring as a stocky guy from the third year football team won by being the last of his side still in contention. I joined in with the next run and to my seven stone wet through surprise, I won it; with backslaps and congratulations from all players. I recall being highly suspicious, thinking no way should it have happened in a field of so many experienced practitioners, and that's my first reason for remembering that night.

Twenty minutes later, roughly an hour after the meeting started, I was out of there, but not really for that reason; the entire hall emptied out onto Springvale street. J.F.K. had been assassinated in Dallas, to which someone informed the scout master and the meeting was abandoned, my second reason for remembering, although at the time I didn't get what all the fuss was about.

It was cold, dark and raining. I had to walk over the gasworks bridge to Manse street for the New England bus, the only one that would take me up the scheme at that hour. Two women waiting for the same bus were talking about how dreadful the news was about J.F.K. and that's when I cottoned on to the fact that it was actually of some great and serious, earth-shattering importance.

I bounced into the house and my mum looked at the clock on the mantle. “You're home early,” she announced, “we weren't expecting you for another hour or so.”

“President Kennedy got shot so they sent us home,” I explained.

“Uh-huh,” said dad, who was scraping wallpaper over by the back window, “there's another scraper over there. Get your sleeves rolled up and start on that other wall out of my way.”

I thought perhaps J.F.K's passing wasn't such a big deal after all and complied, but then I realised they had the wireless on therefore it wasn't quite news to them.

That brings me to my third reason for remembering. I couldn't tie my school shoelaces the following morning due to the extreme pain in my right arm, my scraping arm.

By the way, that was my one and only meeting as a member of the Boy Scout movement. It wasn't for me.